Anthology
by LadyFlick
Summary: QFLC, S7. Various characters (but, mostly Dramione) in various situations. One-shots.
1. Round 1 (Dramoine)

QLFC S7 R1

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**Disclaimer:** All brilliance of this amazing world goes to JK Rowling.

**Team:** Appleby Arrows - Beater 1  
**Prompt:** Character making a mountain out of a molehill

**Additional prompts:**Cream (color)Insufferable (word)"If I had a Knut for every time _ said that" (dialogue)

**Word Count: **1986 (google docs)

**A/N:** First time participating in something like this! Thanks to Lizzie and Newt for their edits :)

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_Round 1_

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Hermione Granger was known for being many things: war hero, magical creatures' rights activist, and, to everyone's surprise, Wizarding London's number one bachelorette. She was _not_ known for making mistakes, and suddenly there she was, having made one that successfully humiliated her into oblivion.

She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised; in all the years that she'd known him he'd always lived up to the title Insufferable Prat. Even so, they were hardly school children anymore, and she would have liked to assume he had grown past his schoolyard bullying, what with them being _engaged_ and all.

When he suggested a choreographed display of some sort, she should have laughed in his face and firmly declared "Are you insane, of course not, I can barely walk let alone dance properly!"

She had not, in fact, said that, and instead agreed. Even her own _mother_ was surprised (though pleasantly so) at her decision, but she had fallen prey to that Malfoy Charm she once found so nauseating. He had called her his brave, swotty, Gryffindor - how could she deny him? Though she often pretended to be affronted at his phrase of endearment, she secretly adored it. She was his only brave, swotty, Gryffindor, afterall.

Even so, dancing with Krum at the Yule Ball was one thing; those steps had been simple and pedestrian at best. But to bring in a professional dancer to choreograph such an intricate piece?

_It was a giant mistake, _her thoughts hissed. A big, fat _mistake_ that marred her record of good decisions.

Which was why the young woman found herself hunched over a bathroom sink, angrily staring at her blurry reflection and woefully eyeing the crimson stain upon her cream-colored shirt.

Alright, so perhaps the _stain_ wasn't his fault. But that fact was besides the point! Point was, he catalyzed the event. Whether or not it was intentional hardly mattered! Right? It was still _his fault_. After all, Draco Malfoy, despite being an utter Prat (capital P) was, to her chagrin, _not_ clumsy. In fact, he was very much the opposite; the effortless decorum from an aristocratic upbringing, as well as his career as a professional athlete, made that glaringly obvious. Which was why, to all involved, it was apparent that the blame for that evening's _humiliating_ happenstance rested on _her_ and her ungainly feet. _Right?_

For all Hermione's intelligence and compassion, she was woefully lacking in any form of grace. She had always been terrible at sports, often bumping her poor shins into desk legs, stubbing her toes on pesky chairs, knocking over her piles of meticulously organized books. So she was _mildly_ uncoordinated. She had a lot of other things going for her, didn't she? That being said, all the wits in the world couldn't save her from embarrassment, lumbering as she was.

A frustrated hand brushed away her tears- she thought herself better than this, stronger than this. She was a grown woman for Merlin's sake! "You stop that right now," she demanded, glaring at her puffy face. "You can_not_ let this ruin your evening! You've worked too hard for this. You've come so far," the witch huffed, attempting and failing to smooth her flyaway curls. She would _not_ let this bring down her night, she would _not_ let this undo her-

"Hermione?"

Oh, for the love of- "Go _away_."

"You're being ridiculous, you know that, right?"

Hermione fixed a glare at his reflection. The prat had the _audacity_ to look amused? "You're not the one who's embarrassed himself in front of everyone," she snapped.

He leaned against the door frame, eyeing her with a single raised brow, arms crossed over his chest. Though he said nothing, his expression reprimanded her all on its own. She hated when he gave her _that_ look. The one that said '_Are you done acting like a petulant child, yet?'_

_I swear to Merlin, if I had a Knut for every time he gave me _that _look…_

Well, she'd be as wealthy as a Malfoy, that was for certain. Then perhaps she wouldn't even be in that mess.

Sensing her rage, the young man sighed, arms dropping to his sides. "Alright, what would you have me do? Plead for you to come back? Declare to the world that you are, by all means, superior to me in every way? What?"

Good Godric, was he patronizing her?

"Shall I tell everyone that Nargles were behind it? That Wrackspurts have appeared in your head?"

He approached her then, very much the cautious wizard nearing a Hippogriff. She _loathed_ when he did that. It made her feel foolish. Often, she wondered if she treated Ron in a similar manner whenever he'd do something juvenile.

"Shall I acquire a Time-Turner and save you from this terrible fate?"

The hint of a smile tightened about his lips and Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"Are you laughing at me, Malfoy?"

"No, never," the man answered, face carefully blank.

He was quite good at that, she had to admit. But she _knew_ him. Knew every lock on his insufferable head. "You-"

"Love," he soothed, and with that single word the witch quieted. Inwardly, she wondered _how_ he did that.

_That Malfoy charm_, she scoffed, keeping her wiles about her as the young man reached out, hands finding her shoulders to turn her around. Hermione mentally stomped her feet in protest, but the amused glint in his eyes kept her restrained. He was accustomed to her fits, afterall. Just as she was accustomed to his.

"It's nothing but a stain," her fiance reasoned, as if that erased all her problems. "Now what's _really _the matter?"

Hermione leaned away from him, folding her arms across her front. "I-" she searched for words and hated the way the silver depths of his eyes swallowed her whole. "I messed up," she muttered, knowing full-well that she sounded pathetic. But she _never_ messed up! She was Hermione sodding Granger! Brightest witch of her age! She could handle a few measly _steps_\- "_You_ had to go and try that new move we have never practiced and _humiliate_ me-"

"Love?" It was a question, but worked to silence her all the same. "You're being insufferable."

The woman gawked in turn, feeling her simmering rage boil over once again. How _dare_ he-!

"I tried something I thought might be surprising and romantic. I'm sorry, alright? I had thought you could keep up; you've been doing surprisingly well in our dance lessons."

Hermione knew there was a compliment somewhere in there, but she only scowled in turn.

Realizing the witch he had chosen to spend the rest of his life with would not budge, Draco sighed. "Nobody cares that you've tripped and bumped into Longbottom. In fact, everyone blames _Longbottom_ for having spilled his wine on you. The git shouldn't have even been anywhere near the dance floor," he added as an after-thought. "The poor sod feels terrible enough as it is. Will you come back to rehearsal and show him you're not upset? He's a wreck."

Hermione bit her lip, feathers less ruffled and ego just mildly bruised, as the thought of one of her dearest friends worrying subdued her tantrum. The reality of the situation came down upon her like a thick blanket. Of course nobody cared that she made a mistake. The audience was comprised of her closest friends and family.

Even so, a shuddering breath escaped her. "I just-" she paused, then began again, "I've been so stressed, I want everything to be perfect and..."

The young man grinned, dipping down to press his forehead to hers. She could count the lashes lining his eyes, note the silver and slate flecks that comprised his irises. "I know it's been a right mess. Everyone's been a nightmare about all this. My mother, yours, _Molly-_" he said the last name with feigned distaste and Hermione snorted. Though Molly by all rights should not have been involved in planning the wedding, the Weasley matriarch had insisted, and the trio of stubborn mothers rarely saw eye-to-eye, leaving the engaged pair under duress. "But everything is sorted and tomorrow it will all be over. Then we can escape to a tropical villa and forget that any of this ever happened."

"I don't want to forget," Hermione pouted. "It's been a nightmare, yes, but it's such an integral part of our lives, isn't it?"

He kissed her then, and when he pulled away he took all of the witch's concern with him. "So are you done acting like a petulant child yet?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Prat." With a heavy sigh, she pushed away from the sink and wandered to the door. "My face is still all red," the young woman lamented. "I must look a fright," she groaned with realization, withdrawing her wand to clean the stain from her shirt.

Draco pushed the door open before she could bother, ever the gentleman despite her many, _many_ protests that she was completely capable of opening her own doors, thanks ever so.

His free hand caught her wrist before she could _Scourgify_ herself, "No one will care. Besides, I've always thought red suited you better." That amused glint was back in his eye as he passed her by.

The young woman scoffed as she watched her insufferable fiance _swagger_ down the hall, always the pompous, know-it-all, intelligent, mature, challenging, stimulating...

She blinked out of her thoughts and shook her head before trailing after him.

When she returned to the rehearsal dinner, no one commented on the fact that the cranberry stain was still emblazoned on the front of her blouse. He was right, red suited her much better than _cream_. It spoke of her passion, her intensity, and besides, she'd be wearing cream the next day, so sod it!

Hermione met Draco's smirk with one of her own as he extended his hand for her. The glint of his emerald cufflinks caught the light and everything seemed to fall into place. What a pair they must have been: Gryffindor daring and Slytherin grace.

The opening chords of their song filtered into the ballroom and the assurance in his gaze was all the sobering potion she needed to calm her nerves. He knew how to irritate her beyond recognition, but he also knew how to bring her back from the precipice of madness. Which was why, there, surrounded by their dearest relatives and friends, they went through the dance they had practiced a million times over, completing it to perfection.

"That's my brave, swotty, Gryffindor," he acknowledged as the final notes lingered in the air between them.

The young woman grinned, "You know, if I had a Knut for every time you've said that, I'd be as wealthy as-"

His arm tightened about her waist then. "You're already going to be a Malfoy, love. Remember? Or did those Wrackspurts get to you?"

"You really are an Insufferable Prat," she answered, nothing but affection in her tone.

He winked in response just as Harry came up to clap a congratulatory hand onto the blond's shoulder. Hermione took a moment to study her affianced, unable to keep the smile on her face from widening as the bespectacled man complained about how Ginny was now insisting on their _own_ choreographed dance for their approaching wedding.

Draco let out an inelegant snort and shook his head. "Should have started training for the ballet when I first suggested it, Potter," he teased.

Harry scoffed before calling for an impromptu toast. "To one of my absolute best friends," he opened, then with visible pause, added, "and the Slytherin prick who has clearly Confunded her into agreeing to marry him..."

Good-natured laughter filled the room and Draco simply shrugged, as if unsure himself just why she had chosen him. When she laughed, he shot her a lopsided grin that made her chest constrict.

She couldn't wait to be Mrs. Insufferable Prat.

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Hope you enjoyed! :)


	2. The Perfect (Narcissa)

QLFC S7 R2

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**Team:** Appleby Arrows - Beater 1  
**Prompt: **Write about a character(s) striving to attain their concept of "perfection"

**Additional prompts:  
**Passion (word)  
"Knowledge is realising that the street is one-way; wisdom is looking both directions before crossing anyway." (quote)

**Word count: **2184 (google docs)

**A/N: **Thanks, Newt, for your edits! (:

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**The Perfect**

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_._

_._

_Daughter._

One of her first memories involved a series of gaunt faces crooning over how exquisite she was. Judgmental eyes took apart every centimeter of her—from her hair, to the set of her shoulders, to her dainty feet—not bothering to contain their opinionated remarks, before deciding that she was, indeed, the perfect little doll. They fawned over the silver-haired, large-eyed, button-nosed youngest child of Cygnus and Druella Black.

She could recall her mother's fingers pinching her cheeks, not in adoration, but to give them a healthy flush. "You are a Black," her mother had said as she pinched the young girl's cheeks once more for good measure. "You are to live up to the expectations attached to our noble House."

With Bellatrix's wild and unruly mane framing enviable features, Andromeda's wide eyes and chestnut hair falling straight as sheet metal to her shoulder blades, and Narcissa's crystalline eyes and silvery locks, the Black sisters were a striking set to behold.

Even so, it was clear that the youngest sister best exemplified the Black family name. Bellatrix was boundless in her temerity, and Andromeda was far too meek. Narcissa, on the other hand, possessed both qualities in equal measure—strong and proud when the situation warranted Black poise, but also subservient, as a daughter should be.

At social dinners, her younger cousin often mocked her for being "Little Miss Perfect".

Narcissa would simply quirk an elegant brow and fix the dark-haired boy with a look that was telling of her upbringing. "Perhaps _you'd_ be praised more if you bothered with hygiene. You smell like a dog," she'd retort with a primness beyond what a mere ten year old should possess.

The young boy would predictably respond with a wolfish grin and a series of barks that fully embarrassed his relatives, earning a smack to the back of the head from her furious Aunt Walburga.

Narcissa would sniff in disapproval, idly brushing at her skirts as if waving off her cousin's presence. He was a smudge on the Black family name and there was perfection in the pristine. She would tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, ignoring Bella and Sirius' arguing and Andromeda's insecure fidgeting.

Her head held high, shoulders back, she'd offer pretty little smiles as her aunts and uncles remarked on her impeccable manners and how she'd make a wonderful matriarch one day.

Image and perfection were everything.

.

.

_Student._

"'Knowledge is realising that the street is one-way; wisdom is looking both directions before crossing anyway,'" the Headmaster recited, unwrapping a piece of candy. He gave the student seated before him an appraising look from behind half moon glasses, allowing time for his words to properly sink in.

Narcissa disliked the shrewd look he gave: as if he peered directly into her soul, picking past each and every one of her insecurities. She stiffened against a shiver, halting her body from betraying her discomfiture.

"Do you know who said it?" he inquired.

"Who said what, sir?" the student replied, blinking out of her own thoughts.

"The quote," Dumbledore answered, aimlessly gesturing his hand, "about knowledge and wisdom."

She shook her head.

"A Muggle," he revealed without pomp. "I often find Muggle works fascinating. You see, Miss Black, I believe that to gain wisdom, we must look through the eyes of many. Not the eyes of a few." He paused then, watching the Slytherin with an unreadable expression.

Narcissa returned his level gaze.

Dumbledore went on, "Now, that particular saying could be interpreted in a myriad of ways, but I have come to understand it as this: knowledge and logic are not enough. One has to understand, and take into account, unpredictability. People like things to be organized in certain ways, but the universe has other plans."

He studied her once more, and this time the young witch could have sworn she felt _something_ prickling around in her mind, but it was gone before she could pinpoint it.

"Am I in trouble, sir?" she asked instead, lifting her chin in a manner befitting her family name. She couldn't understand just _why_ she was called to the Headmaster's office. She had been nothing short of a perfect student since her First Year. She had caused no trouble and ruffled no feathers. Unlike Bella, who was often yelling insults up and down the halls, iniquity knowing no bounds, Narcissa embodied _perfection _in every aspect of her life, from her impeccable hair to her polished shoes.

Which was why, as she sat in the overly plush chair facing the Headmaster, she was at a loss for any reasons she might be in his office at all.

"You have been an excellent student, Miss Black." The house name on his tongue lacked the usual reverence Narcissa often heard accompanying it. "Professor Slughorn has nominated you as a Prefect for next term. Normally we do not interview our candidates, but as it stands, recent..._experience_ in having a Black as a Prefect warrants a modicum of caution."

A soft frown befell her features. Bellatrix _was_ a bit..._enthusiastic_ in her short-lived role. Narcissa wondered if anyone had ever been removed as a Prefect before.

"I'm not like Bella," the young Slytherin declared confidently, hands folded neatly in her lap. "In my four years at Hogwarts I have never stepped a toe out of line, haven't so much as—"

"An excellent student, as I said," Dumbledore agreed. "However, I approve Prefects on much more than their ability to follow. Prefects are leaders, Miss Black. They must be able to distinguish between right and wrong. They must understand a situation and act accordingly. Do you understand?"

Narcissa met his stare with an unwavering one of her own. "Yes, sir."

"Your sister said the same thing," the Headmaster mused.

"I thought you didn't normally speak to prospective Prefects about their appointment?"

Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, steepling his hands before him. "Oh, Andromeda Black wasn't suggested as Prefect," he answered with a gentle smile. "But I certainly wondered if she would have been a better option than—"

"May I go?" She could feel her heart thudding against her ribcage at the mere thought of her traitor of a sister. Her own blood abandoning family to run off with that _filth_.

_Now, _that _was unpredictable_, her mind sneered as she ruminated on her lost sister's betrayal and Dumbledore's words, and how chaos and disorder lent itself to imperfection.

Without waiting for dismissal, Narcissa stood from her chair, lowering her head to restrain whatever threatened to leap from her: rage, sadness, and something else Narcissa had trouble identifying.

"Yes, Miss Black," Dumbledore said as the student disappeared out the door, "you may go."

.

.

_Lover._

Tinkling laughter filtered through the trees, carried along by the spring breeze. Budding flowers dotted the branches overhead, their pastel hue rivaling the young woman's moon-pale hair.

"You are a cad."

A haughty smile punctuated a perfectly symmetrical face. "But a handsome one, don't you think?"

Narcissa shook her head, the motion tossing her unrestrained locks down her back. "If your head gets filled with any more hot air, you'll have no need for that new broom your father purchased."

It was the spring of their final year at Hogwarts, and though she really should have been more concerned with their End of Year Exams, the young witch found herself far too consumed by the surprisingly witty Lucius Malfoy. He embodied the very idea of _perfect_, with his chiseled jaw and aquiline nose, and, Narcissa dared think, his rather impressive build.

Now, she was not a fool; she was well aware of the fact that their encounter in First Year had hardly been an accident. Their meeting, their odd friendship, had all been part of the grand design of both families. Even so, she counted herself lucky to be matched with someone so _fit_.

Schooling her expression into one of nonchalance, the young woman shrugged a single graceful shoulder, always playing demure just as her mother taught her.

"My Cissa, always so indifferent," the wizard grinned, reaching out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you have any idea how I feel towards you?"

Inclining her head away from his touch, Narcissa grinned. "You think I'm perfect," she answered.

"That's certainly a fact," Lucius chuckled, "but that's not how I _feel_."

She blinked in turn, unsure of what he meant. He fancied her, and they both knew, even as they remained a respectable distance on the checkered blanket upon the grass, that they would soon be wed. "How do you _feel_, then?" Narcissa teased, allowing a careful smile to stretch across her lips.

The look in the wizard's eyes darkened with an entity that only made itself known to Narcissa in her dreams. It was a look that boasted wild emotions, unbridled desire, and it shook her to the core.

She briefly recalled when a similar sensation overcame her—three years prior, when the Headmaster had spoken so cavalierly of her lost sister. But _that_ emotion had been consuming in the worst of ways.

With Lucius, the emotion was entirely different.

He leaned forward to catch her lips and the kiss ignited something in the witch that her mother had secured away with lock and key. Everything came as an outpouring of emotions: fury, jealousy, elation, depression, shock—all the weaknesses that made humans _imperfect_ and Blacks unshakeable. There they all went, tumbling out, drawn from her with every movement of Lucius' mouth on hers.

Certainly, they've kissed before, but it was always respectable; it wouldn't do to go about besmirching her reputation and name, now would it?

But now they were seventeen, on the brink of graduating, soon to be engaged. How could she deny the man what he sought when his fervent attention made her feel so desired, so cherished?

She whispered his name like an incantation, as if he was a god bestowing upon her everything she had never cared to know, and she was becoming all the richer for it.

Despite her carefully outlined life, her meticulous attention to every aspect of her character, her routine, her future, the silver-tongued Malfoy managed to catch her off-guard, to turn her world upside down in a way she never thought possible. Never had she witnessed such adoration, such _passion_, from a match like what Lucius promised in his kiss.

Not from her parents, nor her aunts and uncles, and certainly not from her own sister's match. In fact, Narcissa suspected that Bella felt as strongly about Rodolphus as she did about the weather.

For the first time in her entire life, she questioned her mother's wisdom, and reflected on Dumbledore's words.

.

.

_Mother._

"You. Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."

She was faced with the ghosts of her past, the echoing vestiges of expectations swimming in her head, pouring from every long forgotten crevice between her memories. But as she knelt there, heart racing, ice running through her veins, Narcissa came to the irrefutable conclusion that her mother was _wrong_.

Detachment, poise, and pride were not what made one _perfect_. What was perfection when no one was there to appreciate it? What was the point? A flower could be perfect, as could a diamond, but with no one to admire them what did they ever achieve?

_Nothing_.

Narcissa, if nothing else, was a prideful woman. She was proud of her family, proud of her husband, but most of all, proud of what she had brought into the world.

Crouching down, she placed delicate hands upon the one boy who could possibly _end this madness_.

"Is Draco alive?" she whispered, voice barely audible over the breeze. "Is he in the castle?"

Beneath her palm, Harry Potter's heart remained beating, albeit weakly. It was his response that gave her something tangible to hold on to—"_Yes_."

She froze, hand involuntarily clasping around that invisible sliver of hope, before withdrawing from his beaten form.

Something finally cracked within her, something desperate and manic and decidedly _un_-befitting of a Black. But she wasn't a Black anymore, was she? She was a Malfoy, and Malfoys put their family above all else.

The Dark Lord didn't take into account that his pawn might defect. He didn't even entertain the idea that one of his followers might be far more loyal to her own blood than the greatness he promised. He assumed her desire for a 'perfect' world overruled her love for her husband, her son, and herself.

Narcissa's eyes hardened.

He was a fool.

"He is dead!" she declared, breaking free of all the bonds that had held her so tightly.

Amidst the celebration that followed her deception, she slipped into the castle, concerned not by the tattered state of her robes, nor her disheveled hair. The only thing on her mind was what was most important in the world, what gave her a reason for living, for it was through Draco—through saving him and giving him a chance at building his own legacy, in rebuilding her family—that Narcissa could achieve a state of perfection even her mother could never attain:

A loving, whole family.


	3. Demons (Dramoine)

QLFC S7 R3

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**Word Count: 2826  
**

**Team: **Appleby Arrows - Beater 1  
**Prompt: **Write about a character who comes to respect someone they didn't previously

**Additional prompts:**  
"Demons" Imagine Dragons (song)  
Tragedy (genre)  
Journal (object)

_Thanks to Newt for her edits!_

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**Demons**

* * *

_They say it's what you make  
__I say it's up to fate  
__It's woven in my soul  
__I need to let you go_

* * *

.

.

_**First Year.**_

It is on the Hogwarts Train that he first sees her. She is all unbridled curls and haughty tones, and he knows, deep in his bones, that she _must_ be a Pureblood. Only a Pureblood can carry herself in such a self-assured manner.

She is stopped in front of his compartment, attempting to calm down a male student. Draco overhears her suggest a Summoning Charm to find someone named Trevor.

("Wow, Hermione! That's got to be Fourth Year stuff!" the distraught boy replies.

"I can't _perform_ it, yet, of course. I've been practicing a few spells over summer, but I haven't quite worked _that_ one out, yet.")

Definitely a Pureblood.

It is a week later when he realizes he is wrong. She is not a Pureblood at all (Not even a Halfblood!) and he doesn't understand _why_ he can't seem to believe it.

He doesn't mean to look at her, but his eyes move towards her, regardless.

She sits at the Gryffindor table, head buried in a book despite it being the weekend. Her idiot friends flank her, one shamelessly stuffing his face, the other practically brushing his hair from his forehead to show off his prominent scar.

Something ugly writhes within him whenever he sees those three, something full of pride—in his family name, in his clout—and Draco feels it bubble in his gut, now. It always seems to simmer at the sight of the trio, something Draco can't quite define. It feels like something akin to indigestion, but Malfoys don't get indigestion.

.

.

_**Second Year.**_

Draco Malfoy is not a dolt. On the contrary, he is rather well-read and quite _likes_ to read. His memory is phenomenal, deductive skills even more-so. But how is one supposed to shine in a class with Hermione _sodding_ Granger?

Her hand is in the air as if she is assembled with a malfunctioning limb.

His Seeker reflexes are tested every time he races against her hand, fingers flexed as they stretch skyward to answer a question.

It is one afternoon in History of Magic that he finally beats the young girl's speed (never mind that he suspects she's much too busy going over notes about Magical Creatures—what in the world could she be researching giant snakes for, anyhow?).

All eyes are on him when a mildly surprised Professor Binns says, "That is correct, Mister Malfoy. Five points to Slytherin."

Shining cobalt meets affronted topaz and Draco fixes the frazzled bookworm with a haughty grin.

When Professor Binns asks another question, her books fly off her desk in her hurry to raise her hand in the air.

.

.

_**Third Year.**_

She is his gold standard; a meter stick with which he can measure his own successes and growth. Ever as self-assured as she was when he first saw her on the train, she meets his advances head on, competing for top marks.

He ignores his friends' barbs; why shouldn't he strive to be a top student? How could he allow a _Mudblood_ to best him? So they leave him be, and the unannounced competition with Hermione Granger becomes a warped symbiotic relationship. One can only do as well as the other pushes them to be, afterall. Or so he tells himself.

The give and take is delicious—her eyes blaze at every challenge.

He wonders if her animosity is as superficial as his and receives his answer in the form of a slap, the sting of which explodes across his cheek, every bit as biting and furious as an angered lion.

His family's prejudice and condescension are as much a part of him as magic, and so he finds it impossible to contain his malicious words when laughs about the impending execution of that savage winged beast that _assaulted_ him. And why should he withhold his opinion? He is a Malfoy, and Malfoys don't pander to the lowly.

But as Hermione stares him down—with her large hair and larger ferocity, cheeks furrowed by strong purpose and feeling—he can't help but think she's far from lowly.

If he didn't know any better, he'd believe her to be a Pureblood through and through.

Except no...that isn't quite right. There's a warning in her eyes that reveals a compassion he has never seen in either his friends or family.

It is a passion that ignites the flames in his chest and he is finally able to begin picking apart the strange feeling that overcomes him whenever he sees the trio—no, not the trio, just her.

Just Hermione Granger.

.

.

_**Fourth Year.**_

There is something curiously suggestive and engaging about her interaction with the Durmstrang athlete. It leaves him feeling...well, something unwelcome and undefinable, as simple to pin down as a shadow.

He knows for certain he _doesn't_ like it. Where it was once only him and her in the library in the late hours, loudly turning pages to indicate how quickly they were reading the sections in their books, it is now her and _Krum_ (with a flock of tittering girls hovering nearby).

Draco grumbles under his breath when Hermione patiently instructs the foreign student on how to pronounce her name.

The interloper says it incorrectly (_again)_, and Draco finds frustration in the slight flush that appears on the Gryffindor's cheeks when Krum goes on to compliment her hair. Draco leaves before the display sickens him further.

Only when he sees her enter the Yule Ball does he fully understand that strange, unwelcome, chest tightening, stomach dropping, irritable feeling: it is _attraction._

Salazar help him.

.

.

_**Fifth Year.**_

Perhaps he is still sore about her fraternizing with Krum. Perhaps he is furious with himself for developing a _crush_ on the swotty Gryffindor. Whatever the reasons, Draco reinforces his disgust, possibly overcompensating just a little, at every opportunity.

(Never mind that he looks forward to having an excuse to trail her, an excuse to actually watch her and have no need to hide it.)

Let her and everyone else see that he has no weaknesses, especially not in a trouble-making, rule-breaking, little Mudblood.

(But her laughter—as Peeves blows raspberries whenever Umbridge speaks—tugs at the corners of his lips and makes something in his chest ache.)

_._

_._

_**Sixth Year.**_

Madness descends upon him as swiftly and frighteningly as Dementors. His life, previously perfect in almost every way, is quickly coming undone, and Draco feels his sanity slipping.

He is horrified about his father, worried about his mother, and terrified about _her_.

How could Draco hide her importance in his life from the Dark Lord? He does his best to shut her from his mind, averting his eyes when she passes, telling himself that candlelight shining upon unruly curls is not in the least bit enticing.

Instead, he throws himself solely into his task. His grades suffer but what do grades matter when lives are on the line?

Whatever mutual understanding might have stood between them, the fragile truce when it came to academia, is shattered.

He doesn't take notice of her questioning gaze when he ceases raising his hand in class. He tells himself that the barest hint of disappointment in her eyes when she realizes their competition has come to an end is simply his imagination.

Draco remains steadfast in his detachment, almost convincing himself that his chill, critical impartiality is real, that he doesn't care—has never cared—for some silly, little Mudblood.

But a moment of weakness arises when he sees her and her motley crew outside the Room of Requirement just as a hoard of _Death Eaters_ are parading out of a cabinet—Death Eaters who will attack and kill on sight without mercy, without restraint or rhyme or reason.

His hand (always quicker than hers) tosses up Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

Later, he says it was because they did not want to reveal their plan to Potter before it could be fully enacted. He is proud of the fact that Bellatrix does not see the truth beneath his lie.

.

.

_**Seventh Year.**_

When he sees her in the Manor, terror grips him.

Whatever machinations of fancy he has contrived in his youth, of one day meeting when prejudices from neither blood nor house stand between them, is torn from him, and he slips down the steep of disenchantment.

There is a very stark line in this war, and it is clear as day where they each stand: she is free to charge forth, a courageous lion, a harbinger of a golden era. He is tethered to a far different fate, one of old blood and outdated tradition. He is bound to his family, to their ways, in every aspect of his life, and he _knows _that any weakness shown for his old school mates will end in their immediate deaths.

She is a bright light. She is hope for the future. Her radiance blinds him (has always blinded him) in a way he never realizes he _wants_ to be blinded. She blinds him to prejudice and hate; she blinds him to loneliness and despair.

What kind of world would it be without such light?

And so, he says he does not recognize her, or any of them.

When he meets her eyes (no longer innocent but still bright topaz, and furious as ever) for the briefest of moments, he sees only disgust in their depths and he knows, in his quickly freezing heart, that they truly can never be.

How could someone as bright, as good, as radiant, as summer ever come to understand or forgive him and his icy visage? He causes only pain and she deserves better.

Unbidden, azure eyes and fiery hair come to mind, and Draco can't help the jealousy that overcomes him. A realization that he's always known but never wanted to face finally creeps around him, blanketing him in a truth so thick it becomes difficult to breathe: she deserves warmth and safety and devotion, and that isn't him, could never be him.

Malfoys know about plenty, but they know nothing about unconditional, selfless _love_.

.

.

_**Present.**_

Disbelieving eyes take in the words penned in impeccable, slanted writing, penmanship that reminds her of leather-bound books, the scratching of a quill, and fresh parchment.

_'She has done it again. I can't explain how, but she seems to appear everywhere I turn, as of late. I could have sworn our time tables don't fully match up this year—we are in the same Potions and Arithmancy, and yet there she is in the hall when I exit History of Magic! How can this be when I know for certain she's just come from Astronomy? For Salazar's sake—she's a nightmare.'_

His handwriting is off, she realizes, and then it hits her all at once: the entry is from Third Year, when Buckbeak injured his arm. He is writing with his less-dominant hand.

This fact grips her—that Draco Malfoy cared enough to rant about her that he would inconvenience himself and use his non-dominant hand to do so?

_'I'm fairly certain he cheated. How that Weasel could ever make the Quidditch Team is beyond my comprehension. And McLaggen was by far the worst I've ever seen him on a broom. Confunded, most likely—and by whom, I wonder! Merlin's Balls, the Weasel doesn't deserve someone like her.'_

_'He's moved into my home and it terrifies me to know he might read through my thoughts_—_flip through every memory as if pages in a book.'_

'_All my life I've been told I'm better; we're better. We were promised greatness by a Wizard who abuses his loyal followers. Lying on the cold bathroom floor, with Potter (being a useless git as always) watching the blood leave me (And where the bloody hell did he learn a spell like that, anyways?!), I wondered if things could have ever been different. I wondered if I'd ever get a chance to save my father, heal my mother, or tell __her__. That feeling—that broken, desperate, hopeless feeling_—_is that what everyone else feels in the face of this impending war?'_

_'She is here. I hear her screams. And I hate myself. Her boyfriend is screaming even louder, if that's possible. Tearing up his own throat with the desperation to save her. He'd __die_ _for her. I wonder if I can ever care for anyone as much as that Weasel clearly does for her_—_'_

Hermione shuts her eyes, snapping the journal shut.

"He...mentions you quite a bit."

She glances up, surprised to see _Draco_ sitting with her. But, no it isn't him.

The young man bears a striking resemblance to his father, with his sleek hair and aristocratic nose. It's the eyes that catch her off-guard, however—the same quicksilver, just as intelligent and witty as his father's, but filled only with concern. She wonders what it would have been like to see those eyes in her youth. Would things have turned out differently?

Hermione clears her throat, handing the journal back to her companion.

"My father wanted you to have it," he insists.

"Scorpius—"

A charming grin splits his face and Hermione feels something in her fragile heart crack. "Hermione, I insist. I have plenty to remember of my father. And..." he hesitates, "...I believe he wanted you to know."

Her brow furrows in false innocence.

Scorpius simply gives her a _look _that she knows very well. It is a look that is both exasperated and knowing all the same. There is no hint of accusation or hurt when he reveals, "He loved you."

Did she know? She had certainly wondered, a very long time ago, whenever he'd make a snide remark and always find her eyes before glancing around at his Slytherin posse, whenever he'd answer a question in class before she could raise her hand, whenever they'd sit on the edges of their seats in anticipation of an exam and race to finish first.

Hermione returns Scorpius' expression, unable to lie to those cunning crystalline eyes. "I...had wondered about that, when we were young." She is shocked by her own vulnerability, and so she adds, in as much a haughty tone as she can muster, "But he was such a twat."

Scorpius' grin softens. "He was a good man, in the end," he says, glancing at the headstone before them. Snow has blanketed the ground, but the name on the gold plaque is clear as day. "He...taught me well. Taught me acceptance, _tolerance_—"

At that, she snorts.

"—but most of all, he taught me that _love_ is the most important thing of all."

"I know. That's why I didn't have a problem with you taking my Rose," the older woman answers, cupping a hand to his cheek.

He huffs an amused breath, covers her hand in his, and presses a gentle kiss to his mother-in-law's forehead. "You know everything," he agrees, before straightening up and dusting the snow from his knees. "Don't be long, alright? It's freezing, you'll catch your death."

Hermione, whose eyes are glued to the headstone, simply nods and continues to stare at the familiar name, even long after Scorpius has left.

Alone, she wonders if every time Draco lashed out with a cruel barb there was an intent to hide something else. She wonders if he felt the heat in his chest as she did, the strange bubble of something _more. _She wonders what exactly it was that she saw in his gaze when he saw her with Bellatrix. Except she doesn't have to wonder, does she? All the answers are sitting in her hands.

She thought he was transparent as glass but all this time...

Draco Malfoy had been protecting her from his own friends, from the Death Eaters entering Hogwarts, from Voldemort. In his own detached, twisted, Malfoy way, he _protected her_.

But all those years after...

Why didn't he ever tell her?

She spends hours there, in the cold, flipping through page after page of the deceased man's most vulnerable thoughts, until familiar blue eyes (eyes that have grown up with her, eyes that have seen her at her best and worst, eyes that would never hurt her, eyes that would always love and adore her) appear. When she looks upon them, the answer settles around her, as chilling and beautiful as the softly falling snow:

He was protecting her.

.

.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! (:**


	4. Kismet (Dramoine)

QLFC S7 R4

* * *

**Word Count: **2966

**Team: **Appleby Arrows - Beater 1  
**Prompt: **"The bounce has gone from his bungee."

**Additional prompts:  
**[quote] 'You know what they say about truth and the appearance of truth being opposites.'  
[word] Aromatic  
[creature] Hippogriff

.

.

**Summary:** In which Hermione and Draco are Potions partners and there is no looming threat of Wizarding World anarchy.  
**Rating: **T  
**Category: **AU

**AN:** Thanks to Newt for her mild edits! To the judge who will be reading this: I apologize for all the errors! This is quite a raw draft, as I ran out of time and had a difficult time with this challenge. I hope it's alright (:

* * *

**Kismet**

* * *

.

.

She tells herself it is for the greater good. Whatever it takes to keep Hagrid from being fired, she'll do it. But as the insufferable Slytherin demands that she chop his Shrivelfigs more evenly, Hermione feels the last shred of patience leave her.

"I'll tell you where you can shove these Shrivelfigs—" she begins, but Professor Snape interrupts by clearing his throat. She meets the Potions Master's eyes—unwavering ebony against self-righteous topaz—and exhales loudly through her nose. She says nothing more. At her side, Malfoy smirks.

As the class proceeds and the prat demands she chop his Gurdyroot more finely, Hermione wonders if perhaps she has a future in dentistry, what with her desire to cause Malfoy pain and discomfort growing tenfold.

.

.

_He's pathetic,_ she thinks, as she overhears him put on a show at the Slytherin table. His arm lies limp in its sling while he recounts the _horrific tale_ of coming face-to-beak with the monstrous Hippogriff.

"That lumbering oaf has no idea what he's doing!" the Slytherin prat declares as Parkinson slices an apple for him. "My father'll get him sacked in no time. This could ruin my Quidditch career!"

At that, Hermione snorts into her tea, sending some rather hot liquid down her front. When she glances up, _he_ is looking at her. She draws her features into a scowl and he tuts, turning away.

"That pathetic excuse of a witch can barely even drink tea properly, and Snape expects her to help me in Potions?"

Hermione simmers and she swears the tea evaporates from her robes.

"You alright, 'Mione?" Ron asks from across the table, just then taking notice of her foul mood.

She huffs, "I'm fine."

She loves Hagrid and respects Buckbeak's rights, but in that moment, she mentally curses Hippogriff pride and wishes Buckbeak was a more timid creature—she'd wish that Malfoy was more pleasant, but even she knows that would be asking for too much.

.

.

Hermione is confused as to why she has to continue to help Malfoy in Potions. His arm is healed, yet Professor Snape insists they remain partners (something about how Weasley and Potter will be fine on their own, she needn't mother them). It is rather irritating that the Slytherin Quidditch practice is scheduled just before class, meaning Malfoy is _always_ late.

He swaggers in, donned in his uniform, sporting grass stains that has Pansy at his arm, asking if he's alright.

At least this time the blond prat has no reason to order her about like his own personal attendant. She finds some amount of satisfaction in the fact that his Baneberries lack the smooth consistency Professor Snape emphasized. Hers, on the other hand, are expertly done.

When he glances over at her work, she catches the slight downturn of his mouth and grins to herself.

Suddenly his cutting board drops to the floor, badly mashed Baneberries and all.

"Miss Granger, Help Mister Malfoy clean that up."

Hermione huffs. He's got two perfectly working arms, can't he clean it up himself?

"Could you move a little faster, Granger? Or is that bushy hair weighing you down?" Malfoy snaps.

Merlin help her.

.

.

It is in Fourth Year when their rapport evolves from constant beration to some level of respect—or a version of respect wherein Malfoy no longer belittles her. She is surprised the first time he gives her a task separate from his own and does not make snide comments about the quality of her work. In fact, he doesn't even inspect it, he simply trusts her.

Hermione gives him an odd look as she scrapes the Lacewing Flies into their cauldron, but he is busy reading through the instructions.

"We just need to slice the ginger, grate the Chizpurfle Fang, and we should be done," he declares, finally glancing in her direction.

She sees him as he is, without the airs he always puts upon himself. Beneath the layer of aristocracy and the family name, he is just another student, same as her, Slytherin or Gryffindor, Pureblood or Muggleborn.

Something resolves in her gaze, something he clearly dislikes, and his innocent expression darkens into all-too familiar territory.

"Well, what are you waiting for? I just said we need to slice the ginger and grate the Chipurzfle Fang—what, are you too stunned by my good looks?"

Despite his tone, Hermione bites back a grin and sets to slicing the ginger.

At her side, Malfoy is grating the fang, muttering about impossibly annoying partners and why does Professor Snape insist they remain together, what good could _possibly_ come from their pairing?

.

.

There is no denying that he is _fit_.

Hermione may be a bookworm and studious to a fault, but she is still female, and she certainly has eyes. To say she is surprised when Viktor Krum asks her to the Yule Ball is an understatement. Never has she been the object of someone's affection, and despite him being very much _not_ her type, she finds herself enthralled with the idea that a boy is interested in her for more than just help on homework.

"He's as dumb as a log."

Hermione blinks, peering over at the lone Slytherin situating himself at the end of the table. They are in the library, with scant few students around. The table is long and Malfoy has placed himself as far away from her as possible, though why he doesn't simply choose a different table is beyond her; there are plenty of unoccupied ones.

She quirks a brow as he digs through his pack and withdraws a roll of parchment along with several quills. "I'm sorry, are you talking to me?"

He fixes her with an insufferable look that she has come to learn means "_don't be daft"_. "Who else would I be talking to?" Malfoy snaps, setting a worn tome on the table.

"We're not exactly on friendly chatting terms," Hermione answers before returning her attention to her assignment at hand.

"He's as dumb as a log," Malfoy repeats, taking a seat.

"Crabbe? Goyle? I've always thought so. But really, it's not very nice to say that about your own friend, you know," she teases.

The Slytherin scowls. "Krum," he clarifies with more animosity than necessary.

His tone coerces a shrewd look from Hermione. "Do you even know him?"

"I know he's as dumb as a log," the blond reiterates.

"Because he's an athlete?"

"No, but that just emphasizes why you two don't make sense," the blond explains. "One: he's as dumb as a log; two: he plays Quidditch. Shall we play 'Name Two Things that Would Have Hermione Granger Running Away Screaming'?"

At that, she can't help but laugh. "You've a point," she concedes, noting the beginnings of a smirk that tugs up the corners of his lips, "_if_, what you said is true. But he's not '_dumb as a log_'." Hermione sits up higher in her chair, pointedly turning her attention back to her paper. "Viktor is rather well-read. In fact, we discuss philosophy."

An inelegant snort escapes him. "Quidditch magazines don't count."

Hermione doesn't respond, unsure of exactly how to tell him he's wrong even though he is absolutely on the mark.

"I knew it."

She glares then, tired of his haughty tone, but he is watching her with an intensity that makes her face redden. "He's fit," Hermione says at last.

Malfoy's brow furrows almost imperceptibly, but she notices. He scoffs before finally starting on his assignment. "Never would have pegged Hermione Granger to be another girl who moons over dreamy blokes."

"Did you just call Viktor 'dreamy'?"

He doesn't look back in her direction, but the tell-tale pink of a flush peeks through his pale locks.

Hermione grins to herself before adding, "I may be intelligent, but I'm still a girl, you know. I do notice boys. I simply choose not to change for them, or chase them."

When he glances her way, his eyes are darker than usual—or is it the lamp light? "You certainly shouldn't."

There is such sincerity in his gaze that she is caught entirely off-guard.

"But if you think any self-respecting boy with a pulse will come near you and your head of tangles, I've got bad news, Granger."

.

.

Hermione offers him a tilted smirk as she walks by, hand placed in the crook of Viktor's arm, hair sleek and smooth.

The look Malfoy gives her does a strange thing to her chest that she pointedly ignores.

That evening, something has visibly changed in their interaction. Where she and Malfoy had found a comfortable place between enemies and friends, the former has slipped into new terrain: caution. He regards her warily, she can read it in his eyes; his initial shock in seeing her has worn off and has been replaced with a mixture of incredulity and..._fear_?

Hermione finds that this new change disturbs her. He avoids looking her way (which isn't strange in and of itself, but she has become accustomed to meeting his eyes whenever they are in each other's vicinity) and does his best to bestow compliment after compliment upon a simpering Pansy Parkinson.

.

.

"She's as dumb as a log."

He doesn't even greet her with a cursory glance and Hermione drops her book bag onto the table, sitting down in the chair across from him.

"Who is?" Malfoy intones, with little interest.

"Your date."

At this, the Slytherin quirks a brow. "I'll not have you speaking of Pansy that way in my presence."

"Or what?" Hermione challenges, feeling a strange sense of aversion at the mention of the dark-haired girl.

"Or I'll have to agree."

She blinks.

With a shrug, Malfoy returns to writing his paper. "She certainly talked my ear off all night. The entire time I was thinking about what I wanted to include on this assignment, instead."

All the animosity leaves her. "For Arithmancy?"

He shakes his head. "Muggle Studies."

"_You're_ in Muggle Studies," Hermione clarifies.

Malfoy absently nods.

"Why?" She presses.

There is a beat of silence, then, "I've been intrigued, lately."

.

.

"Been following Quidditch?"

It is a crisp winter day in their Sixth Year. The duo are settled in the library, books spread about the table before the fire place. With the holidays approaching, they have quite a bit of work to do to prepare for their End of Year Exams.

"Was that a joke?" Hermione cracks from behind her Transfiguration textbook.

Malfoy scoffs, sounding so amused that Hermione peers over in his direction. He is fixated on his own tome, silently mouthing the words to himself as he finishes a sentence before taking a bite from an apple. When he is done, he looks up at her, not at all surprised to see her watching him. "So, have you been following it at all?"

Hermione simply frowns. "You know you really aren't allowed to eat in here—"

"I figured, considering your boyfriend is a Quidditch star, you'd at least be somewhat aware of the goings-on in the sport," he elaborates, waving aside her nagging.

"Oh." The Gryffindor shrugs. "I wouldn't say he's my boyfriend, although we'll write from time to time."

"That's it?" Malfoy inquires. "Last I recall, you were all a titter."

"I was _not _'all a titter'. It was simply nice to be _liked_."

"Plenty of blokes like you," he states.

"I believe you said, and I'm quoting from memory here so please bear with me: 'if you think any self-respecting boy with would come near you and your head of tangles'—"

"Well it's not a head of reprehensible tangles _now_, is it?" Malfoy interrupts.

Hermione falters, mouth agape. "I...suppose not."

The blond frowns, rolling his eyes and returning to his books.

"He hasn't been doing well, I hear," she says as she writes her name at the top of a fresh page of parchment.

"He's been playing terribly," Malfoy concedes. "Been a right embarrassment," he goes on, prompting a hum of agreement from the girl. "He was the best Seeker, but it's as if he's an entirely different person. One could say that...the bounce has gone from his bungee."

Hermione's quill stops and she looks up to see the wide grin on his face. She can't help the smile threatening to stretch across her lips at his expression. "Bungee?" she repeats.

And the dam breaks.

"We've just covered bungee jumping in Muggle Studies and it's quite possibly the most idiotic and thrilling thing ever!" he gushes in as much a manner a Malfoy is able to gush. "Muggles are absolutely insane—What is it that keeps them from, er...falling to their deaths? I suppose they have to find their thrills other ways, without broomsticks and—wait, they _have_ flying contraptions? They _jump out _of flying contraptions?"

Only after Hermione has finished penning her paper does she realize the name accidentally written at the top: _Hermione Malfoy_.

.

.

She sits in Potions, frantically stirring her cauldron—26 times clockwise, 26 times counterclockwise—while Harry, who has quite literally asked her for help on every single Potions paper in all years previous, is happily humming while he ignores the instructions in the text and does as he pleases.

To her irritation, Professor Slughorn announces that Harry Potter's Amortentia is perfect.

Curious and perhaps a little skeptical, she peers inside her friend's cauldron. The scents hit her all at once: parchment, grass, and...apples?

It is dizzying and fills her up like a deep, everlasting breath. She sighs at the mixture of aromas perfectly tailored to her.

When she returns to the present, she finds a pair of silver eyes studying her with unnerving intensity. His gaze seems to say he _knows._

Knows what?

.

.

"Pecans?"

"No."

"Cider?"

A sigh. "No."

"Tell me it's not something dumb, like roses, or vanilla."

Hermione lets out a groan, dropping her head into her hands. It is days before they leave for Christmas, and she is stressed enough as it is about her End of Term Exams.

"Malfoy, as much as I'd like to discuss the intricacies of what true love smells like to me, I've got three more chapters on Charms to study, now will you kindly _be quiet!_" She returns her attention to her book with an exaggerated turn of her head.

"Is it the smell of books? Ink?" His voice is quiet now, all playfulness abandoned. "Parchment?"

Her eyes pause their perusing.

"Is it rain?" Malfoy continues, studying her intently. "Dew? Grass?"

Her breathing stills.

"Apples?"

Finally, she glances up from her chapter.

There it is again, the deep molten quality in his eyes. It draws her in like the aromatic scents from the potion, simultaneously filling her up and pulling her apart.

Casually, he withdraws an apple from his book bag. "Apples, then?"

"You really shouldn't be eating in here," Hermione evades, but he ignores her.

"You know, whenever we interact there is always copious amounts of parchment," Malfoy points out, studying the bright green apple in his hand. "And I've always got bits of grass on me, what with Quidditch."

"I hear I'm not much impressed by the sport," the witch responds. "Nor athletes," she adds for good measure.

Malfoy inclines his head. "You know what they say about the truth and the appearance of truth being opposites."

She is lightheaded; she is soaring. That same feeling from the Amortentia fills her up, but there is none nearby—only Malfoy. His scent bombards her, envelopes her. How has she never noticed it before?

"Do you know what it smelled like for me?" he continues.

The sound of his chair moving against the hardwood floor alerts her to him rising from his seat. He moves around the table, slow, cautious.

_He's so fit_, she thinks, and is immediately annoyed with herself. The thought had always been tucked in her mind, but her consciousness refused to acknowledge it.

"I smelled tea," Malfoy reveals. "Tea, leather-bound books, and something else I can't quite put my finger on." He is near, so near that she can count the lashes lining his eyes. When he leans forward, his breath trickles through her locks. "It's _this_," he says, exhaling heavily, the warm air sinking deep into her shoulder, through her robes, her shirt, into her skin. "It's your hair. What _is_ that?"

"Coconut," Hermione whispers.

"Coconut."

Warm, autumnal topaz melts into cool, crisp slate.

He grins, shattering the taut moment: "It's a shame you don't like Quidditch players."

Her mouth first opens, then closes, then opens again. He _chuckles_.

"Hermione, there you are! C'mon, it's nearly curfew. You don't want to get caught out of bed _again_." Harry is standing at the door, verdant eyes jump back and forth between Hermione and Malfoy, as if piecing together a difficult puzzle.

"Thanks Harry, I'll just be a second!" Hermione gathers her things in record time, ignoring the static that fills her brain. "I'll see you?" she says to the Slytherin, allowing an excited smile to grace her lips.

He returns her smile; it is small and secret and tentative, but it is there.

Hermione flushes and turns on her heel, joining Harry in the corridor. She inhales a deep, steadying breath to calm her electric nerves.

The air smells like apples.


	5. Shatter Me (Ginny)

QLFC S7 R5

* * *

**Word Count:** 2955 (without lyrics, googledocs)

**Team:** Appleby Arrows - Beater 1  
**Prompt:** Write about a dream that continued happening even after the character woke up.

**Additional prompts:  
**[Song] 'Shatter Me' - Lindsey Stirling  
[Emotion] Determination  
[Last Line] Gladly, I succumbed.

**AN:** Thanks to Newt and Kirsten for their help!

* * *

**Shatter Me**

* * *

_Somebody shine a light  
__I'm frozen by the fear in me  
__Somebody make me feel alive  
__And shatter me_

* * *

.

.

Laughter vibrates through the summer air. There is sunshine, blue skies, and wind in my hair.

Gradually, the scene reveals itself—patches of happiness languidly stitched together.

I am flying with my brothers at the Burrow, the familiar feel of an old broom in my hand, our somewhat misshapen Quaffle tucked into the crook of my arm. I know the sights and sounds of this moment. I am twenty, it is summer, and I am free.

As I approach the intensely guarded rings, I catch my brother's eyes and know he won't go easy on me. Before I get a chance to score, cheers erupt from below. I know what it is even before I glance down: Harry Potter has caught the Snitch after a tremendous dive.

When I look back at the hoops, Ron is grinning, "Better luck next time!"

I smile, roll my eyes, and head back down to the field. My feet barely land on the grass when I feel it: static.

"_No_." The word is torn from my lips like a Dementor demanding my soul.

The air sparks with his presence, pinpricks of a memory I can't escape from.

I can't run, I can't fly, I can't breathe.

The happy scene continues before me—family sharing drinks, having a picnic in the field, celebrating engagements, and career promotions—but my eyes are fixated on the horizon.

A lone figure stands there, unmoving. Though I can't see his face, I know who it is, and suddenly I am cold.

_No. Go away, please, no._

Hands grip my arms, both firm and gentle, and I fight against the hold, thrashing with every fiber of my being.

"No!"

"Ginny, dear, it's alright!"

I wake with a start, the air rushing so quickly into my lungs that I almost choke. My chest hurts; my body trembles. It takes me a moment to gather my bearings and recognize the face before me. "_Mum_," I murmur, immediately collapsing against her.

Her arms automatically wrap around me, a blanket and a fortress. I can hear her whisper soothing words meant to assure me that everything is fine, but after years of the same routine, I am numb to them.

What truly calms my nerves is hearing her heartbeat: rhythmic and reassuring. No matter how many iterations of realities I experience, her heartbeat remains constant as if I can feel it in the palm of my hand, thumping along with mine.

"Have you been taking your Dreamless Sleep Potion?" she asks, smoothing a hand over my hair.

"Yes." No. Have I? Why can't I remember?

"You're certain?"

Her voice is so nostalgic for a simpler time that I want to cry. I stare up into her lovely face, scrutinizing and skeptical. Every detail of her appears accurate, from the warmth of her skin to the array of freckles peppering her forehead. "It doesn't help," I say, leaning away from her embrace.

"But Ginny, dear, it'll help your nightmares."

"What if _this_ is the nightmare?" It leaves me before I can control myself. "What if this isn't real? What if I'm still down there in the Chamber and—"

"It_ is_ real," Mum interrupts, gesturing her hand to our surroundings. "All of this is real."

We are in my bedroom and everything seems to be in place—my Gryffindor scarf is tossed across my desk, a myriad of Quidditch posters haphazardly hang on the walls, pastel daisy sheets cover my bed—except my room should be empty now that I've moved out to play for the Harpies…

No.

I look at Mum, _really_ look at her, and wonder if I had fooled myself into thinking the resemblance was uncanny, if I had simply hoped it to be real.

Now I can see her eyes are not the right color, her hair is far too smooth, her wrinkles are gone; it is as if I am watching a much younger version of my mum.

As realization settles in, so does the cold.

"You've gotten wiser over the years," Mum says, amused. Her voice has changed—it is deeper, indifferent—and, achingly slowly, the façade dissipates, revealing a young, chiseled face and chocolate side-swept hair. "You were much easier to trick in your youth."

"What do you want from me?" I hate how defeated I sound and clench my fist in search of strength. It has become increasingly more difficult to find, lately.

When he chuckles, it is deep and baritone; I can feel it reverberate in my bones.

"You are stubborn and reckless, but you are no fool," sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle answers. "You know what I want."

My mum and my old bedroom are gone, replaced by a void of darkness. It is always like this when he visits—or is it me visiting him? Or is this simply where I've been all along?

And then I think, _Does it matter?_

"I will _not_ give in—"

"You_ will_," he snaps, his pale face flushing with the fury in his voice. He blinks, composing himself, then studies me with calculating eyes that say he has already won. "Don't you want this to end?" His tone is unassuming, carrying a questioning lilt that lends sincerity to his words. "The confusion, the madness. Aren't you tired of it?"

I raise my chin in defiance and he takes the opportunity to place a finger against my jaw, hand hovering there a moment before trailing up towards the nape of my neck.

"You certainly _look_ tired of it," he breathes, studying my face with the intensity of a man unscrambling a puzzle. "Allow me to have control over your mind, and I will leave it forever."

His voice slithers up my spine, holding enticing promises of freedom from this purgatory.

"Isn't that what you want, Ginevra…?"

His fingers travel down to my elbow, connecting constellations of freckles along the way. Goosebumps rise at the contact.

"Freedom?"

I almost shatter when that word is murmured into my ear. It is exhaled, seductive, and I suppress a shiver.

_Freedom…_

My eyes shut of their own accord. "I…"—but then I think of brilliant green eyes and a crooked, bashful smile. I think of disheveled, dark hair; a maddening habit of leaving Quidditch robes on the floor; the smell of grass and sweat and air; the feel of soft lips against mine—_No_. I must stand strong for Harry, for my family, for my friends.

I move away from Riddle's touch and a frown befalls his features.

Knowing what this seemingly normal person eventually turned into is unnerving. He went through such a great change in his search for immortality. If I've learned nothing else in my time at Hogwarts, it's that desire for power transforms you, mutates you, body and soul, until you are barely a fragment of what you once were.

I will not become like him.

"You _will_ become like me," he hisses—_No!_ my mind screams. _Get out of my head!_—"In fact, you already are."

A full-length mirror materializes between us and I see myself: broken, scared, and _tired_.

"You were once so full of life, so hopeful. Do you remember? You were carefree and young; the world was at your feet. And now? Now, your world is nothing but darkness. You are spinning, spiraling, with nowhere to go. You can barely separate your memories from what I have conjured. You can't even look at your own mother and determine whether or not it's really her. You are pathetic."

I reach a hand to my reflection. _Is_ this me? My hair is thinning, my limbs look weak, I am ashen. I look as though I've given up. Have I? At first, I thought resisting was fighting, but resisting is wasting me away.

Am I already dead? What is even real anymore?

"Surrender yourself to me and I will go away," he whispers, peering at me from behind the mirror. "I can end this. You can return to the life I've let you see glimpses of. Did you know your brother is planning to propose to that Mudblood girl?"

My fingertips press into the glass; I study my eyes, my lips, the curve of my nose. I look so frail, it's sickening. Who _is_ this? This isn't me, this is the empty husk of the girl I once was.

"Harry Potter wants to ask you to move in with him but is afraid it is too soon."

I clench my teeth, my knuckles turn white as I press harder into the mirror. Shut up.

"Your brother, George—"

"Enough!" I exclaim, slamming my opposite fist into the mirror. It shatters on impact and the shards sprinkle to my feet and disappear. "I don't even know if any of what I've seen is real! I could be comatose, I could be dead, I could be trapped forever in this hell. But even so, I will never allow myself to be used by you! _Never!_"

At the end of my outburst, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time. I feel renewed, furious, strong. A blaze ignites in my lungs and I can feel it spread like wildfire through my veins.

Tom Riddle is not impressed. His eyes narrow, bearing a semblance to the creature he eventually becomes. "You _will_ surrender to me. I am a part of you, and I will _always_ be a part of you. Don't you understand? All of my other Horcruxes are gone," his hand reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, "save one."

My eyes widen. _No_.

"Our souls are merged, Ginevra. You poured so much of yourself into me, you think I didn't leave an imprint behind? Don't you see? You are the reason I can remain, you are the last and final attachment I have to this world," he reveals with a deviant smile.

We stand toe-to-toe and I am trapped in his gaze. It's as if his words settle into my very being, replacing my bones with lead and blood with ice.

When he speaks, his voice is velvet and enticing and dangerous. "Potter met with _death_ to be rid of me. I will always be here, always in your mind, always watching, waiting for the moment you are weak enough to surrender. You will give in. I will have my way."

_No._

"I will destroy Harry Potter—"

"No!" I shut my eyes and cover my ears.

When he laughs the sound holds no mirth, only warning.

"Ginny?" A hand on my shoulder startles me and I jump, eyes darting to take in my surroundings. "Gin?"

I find bright, verdant eyes and feel my insides crumble. Concern is written all over his face. I don't want to worry him, but my body betrays me and the tears come full force. He immediately holds me in arms that are stronger than they appear.

"Is it the terrors again?" Harry whispers against my temple.

"I don't know what's real anymore," I answer, hating how weak I sound. "I keep going back and forth, jumping around in time, I-I can't do it, Harry, I can't—"

He pulls away; it's then that I realize he is dressed in a suit. He looks older than I remember, his features sharply defined, his eyes wiser. "This is real. Today is Saturday. We're at Ron and Hermione's wedding, and it's real. You've just calmed down a panicking Hermione. You couldn't find your favorite knickers and I've told you to forget them," he grins then, and I feel the silk fabric of my dress against my skin and nothing else, "your mother convinced you to wear makeup even though you fought tooth-and-nail against it. I'm real. You're real. Stay with me, Gin."

Just the sound of his voice steadies my heart and I exhale, slow and deep.

His hands catch my face, "Say it with me, Gin: this is real," and he presses his forehead against mine.

My world is framed in jet black hair as I focus on his eyes. "This is real," I echo breathily, fingers loosening their grip on his suit jacket. "This is real," I reaffirm.

He smiles, then kisses me. It takes a moment before I return it, and his hand curls to the back of my head. "We'll get through this. I know it'll be hard, but I'll never leave your side. I'll always be here with you, every step of the way."

His words settle around me like dust in an abandoned home, fragile and disturbing.

_'I will always be here.'_

Frost encroaches on my bones.

Pulling away just enough to take in his face in its entirety, my expression hardens. His scar is slightly more jagged than I remember; his jaw is too angled.

"No." The word is my mantra; it grounds me, gives me strength, gives me some form of agency over my decisions.

He frowns. "Gin? What's wrong?"

"No," I repeat with more conviction, stepping away.

Apprehension crosses his features and wrinkles the lightning bolt that mars his forehead.

"Gin. It's me, Harry. Don't do this. _Please_."

I shake my head as my vision blurs with tears once again. How can I believe him? How can I believe in anything? Where am I? When am I?

"I can't," I say, fingernails digging into my palm. "_Is_ this real? Are you _really_ Harry?"

"Who else would I be?" His eyes are so bright, so adoring that, for a second, I believe him. But then the green darkens.

_No._ There is no air. I feel as though I am being split apart and turned inside out. Nonono.

"What's wrong, Gin?" he queries, attempting to reach out.

I shove away—"NO!"—and take off at a run.

Laughter follows me, the sound haunting, mocking.

That wasn't Harry. Is it ever truly Harry? Is it ever anyone besides Riddle?

I run without turning back. I don't know where I'm heading, just away, far away, always, _always_ running.

In the back of my mind, I can hear Harry's true voice calling out to me, somewhere too far away for me to ever reach. Even so, I try to run towards him—

_("Ginny? Ginny, hello? Can you hear me?")_

—but the laughter is getting closer, louder, more erratic—

_("Guys! You guys, she's going into shock again!")_

—and I run and run and run, cursing when I stumble.

_("Stay with us, Gin! Stay with us!")_

Their voices are distant, but I can still hear them. Somehow, I know they are real. I try to focus on them, but Tom Riddle's deep, booming laughter shakes the ground. It is cold and dark and my lungs are screaming for rest.

"You will be here forever," his voice thunders. "There is no escape. Give yourself to me and you will be free."

Free? How can I be free when I'm trapped in my own mind? How can I be free if I know that my surrender will mean the death of a loved one? I want to cry, I want to surrender. My will, my soul, has reached a breaking point that I don't believe I can come back from—

Then, I finally understand.

I scramble to my feet, my blood racing as I withdraw my wand from my jacket pocket.

There is no 'free'. There is only fear, and I am tired—_so tired_—of running from it.

"Your magic can't harm me, remember?" Riddle taunts as he appears before me. "You've tried this before."

I glare, hard and unyielding. "You will _not_ control me," I say before pointing the wand at myself.

Panic flashes in his eyes—"Wait, what are you doing?"—and it is so satisfying that I smirk. He knows, before I even say the words, what I mean to do. His face contorts in fury as he roars, "_NO!_"

I revel in the sound of his shock, his anguish. "Avada Kedavra!"

There is an explosion of blinding light and an intense heat knocks me backward. My body is flying through the air, suspended for what feels like an eternity. A bombardment of familiar voices calls my name,_ pleading_. I can hear them distinctly as if they are yelling right into my ear—

_("Ginny, stay with us!"_

_"Ginny, please!"_

_"Gin, I love you.")_

—The last one is a whisper, soft and desperate. I feel a phantom kiss delicately press upon my lips, the squeeze of a hand around mine. I try to answer, but the air is too thick to carry my response and all I can do is stare into nothingness. _I'm sorry,_ I can't help but think. _I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry._

Eventually, the bright light begins to fade. The voices I hold so dear are growing distant, muffled, and then there is only silence. No pleading. No laughter. Just silence.

I am floating, flying, and a sense of serenity fills me. A part of me wonders if I can still return to them—_wants_ to return to them—but how much of the life Riddle showed me was real, and how much was fabricated? What if the memories never truly happened? What if all of the amazing experiences I felt are false? What if—?

A new light, golden and welcoming, flickers into existence. I reach out to it and instantly know, as it falls across my hand, that it is summer.

From it, I can hear distant laughter that is so painfully familiar I almost want to ask what prank he's done or what ridiculously brilliant thing he's invented lately.

The warm summer light beckons me towards it, greets me like an old friend. It is such a welcome relief for my exhausted mind and tired soul that I smile. It is a broken, tired smile, but it is a _smile_.

_("Ginny, please. Wake up. I love you.")_

Gladly, I succumb.

* * *

**AN:** As fearful as I am of first-person narratives, I enjoyed this! Not the whole Ginny-in-a-coma-and-everyone-waiting-for-her-to-wake-up-but-she-doesn't part, but the, y'know, delving deep into someone's hopeless situation. I hope I captured it well enough! ^^ thanks for reading~


	6. Ode to Mischief (Peeves)

QLFC S7 R7

* * *

**Word Count**: 1777

**Team**: Appleby Arrows - Beater 1  
**Prompt**: Department of Magical Games and Sports: Write about someone having fun

**Additional prompts:  
**(object) Newspaper  
(dialogue) "I love it when someone insults me. It means I don't have to be nice anymore."  
(emotion) Hopeful

_Thanks for the help, Newt!_

* * *

**Ode to Mischief**

* * *

_The ickle students, I scare  
__The Professors, I cross  
__It's all in good fun  
__'Specially if an eye is lost_

_But the most fun to haunt  
__For this troublemaker  
__Is always this school's  
__Sad, bitter caretaker_

* * *

.

.

It had been a relatively good day for Rancorous Carpe.

He had only needed to clean up a handful of messes that day, caught a student with the answers to an exam (Oh, the punishments to be given!), the pesky Poltergeist didn't bother him (Perhaps Peeves has finally moved on to irritate another staff member?), and a raise was in his future!

As he stepped off a moving staircase and passed a nearby corridor, he stopped dead in his tracks. Parchment, broken chairs, and shattered glass littered the floor.

There was no doubt in his mind who caused the mess.

Rancorous grumbled, grabbing his broom to sweep up the debris.

"Stupid ghost," he muttered, movements sharp with frustration. "I don't see how the Professors—how the Headmistress—allows this sort of nonsense. How's a man supposed to do his bloody job with a Poltergeist running through the halls?"

Something pinched the sole of his foot and he cursed, stumbling at the shock. Upon closer inspection, Carpe found a piece of glass protruding from his shoe. Luckily for him, the shoe took much of the damage, but a spot of blood still stained the sock.

"He's a bloody hazard is what he is!" the Caretaker groused, removing the shard and tossing it angrily into a rubbish bin. "Leaving messes for me to clean up. Flying around and riling up students. There's got to be a way to stop him, all the witches and wizards in London and not one found a way to banish that nuisance?"

Rancorous huffed, continuing his sweeping and carefully stepping around broken glass and splintered wood.

"Not a day goes by where he's not running amuck," he grumbled. "Just need to catch him and...and stop him somehow. Contain him."

Just then, a little mouse scurried across the way.

"Catch him. Like a mouse-trap," Rancorous said, amused at the thought. "An enchanted mouse-trap." He chuckled to himself, imagining the scene unfold in his mind's eye. "With a big piece of stinky cheese. Rat-Peeves wouldn't be able to resist, lured in, and then bam!" he exclaimed, hitting the end of his broom against the floor for emphasis.

A shrill scream came from one of the paintings lining the staircases and Peeves materialized from the frame, giggling to himself. The people in the picture yelled after him as he disappeared into the floor above.

"No use trapping a Poltergeist, though," Carpe muttered. "And he doesn't even like cheese. What could even lure him? He doesn't like _anything_."

As he returned to his duties, his eyes fell upon a crumpled newspaper with an ad reading 'Medieval Munitions, Maladies, and Materials'.

_Munitions_.

Slowly, a plan began to form.

.

.

It had to be a dream. This was much too good to be true.

There, before his eyes, sat an assortment of weapons beckoning for his use. Peeves, sparing no thought as to where these new toys had come from, rushed forward to take it all in: several cutlasses, a miniature cannon, crossbows—it was his Christmas!

And then he heard it, the sound of something falling. He'd certainly dropped enough items to identify the very specific rushing of wind just before an object hits the floor (or a person). In this case, it was a hollow object and, rather than hitting him, it enclosed him, landing with a thud on the floor.

Peeves scoffed—A trap, was it?—and reached a hand out to pass through the large glass bell jar, only to find himself stuck. Confusion settled on his face for just a moment before he attempted to escape.

A laugh alerted him to someone else's presence.

"It's been _enchanted_, you mischievous pile of dung!" the Caretaker declared. "I've done it! I've captured the insufferable ghost!" His accompanying laugh was utterly giddy.

Peeves let off a stream of obscenities, all of which fell on deaf ears, much to the captive's irritation. The half-wit Carpe gloated on the other side of the glass.

"I can't hear you," the Caretaker taunted in his best imitation of the Poltergeist's sing-song voice. "Never will I have to bear your songs or your laughter. Headmistress! _Headmistress!_"

He ran to fetch Mole, leaving Peeves to stew in his rage.

Who knew a pile of glittering weapons would be his undoing?

A silvery sheen of enchantment highlighted the bell jar and Peeves touched it experimentally. He had to admit, he was surprised an idiot like Carpe managed to devise a plan to catch him. But like hell Peeves would allow himself to be outdone by _Rancorous the Useless, Rancorous the Lame—if only he had at least half of a brain!_

Peeves huffed, buffeting his body against all sides of the glass containment. He couldn't be removed from Hogwarts; better men than _Ranky Panky_ had tried and failed.

Peeves came with the territory, after all.

.

.

Rancorous Carpe practically skipped to the Headmistress' office, battering his knuckles upon her door.

"What is it?" the woman called.

Carpe burst into her chambers. "I've done it!"

Eupraxia Mole set aside the papers she was reviewing and fixed her stern gaze onto the Caretaker. "Done what, exactly?"

Rancorous grinned like the cat that ate the canary. "Captured Peeves!"

"He can't be captured," dismissed the Headmistress.

"But I've done it! Come see!"

The woman studied him then—never had she seen him so proud, so excited. Something in her bones told her something was going to go very, very wrong. "Alright, Rancorous, take me to him."

The walk to the alleged capture of the Hogwarts Poltergeist was filled with Carpe tittering in excitement about his brilliant plan of enchanting a giant bell jar.

"I've done it, Eupraxia, I swear to you! We can finally be rid of that nuisance! Imagine Hogwarts without him disrupting classrooms and running amuck in the halls! Just think of it! Everyone thought it was impossible but I've done it, I've finally done it! We will be rid of that insufferable, deviant, pathetic—!"

When they turned the corner, the duo found Peeves sitting atop the bell jar, grinning from ear to ear. Slung across his back was a crossbow and, in his lap, the miniature cannon.

"I love it when someone insults me. It means I don't have to be _nice_ anymore!" Peeves practically sang before blasting the cannon in their direction.

Eupraxia Mole cast a Shield Charm just as the cannonball exploded against it.

Peeves cackled, firing the cannon in all directions before moving down the hall in the opposite direction.

The Headmistress fixed Carpe with a withering look. "I suppose, to lure Peeves into your trap, you enticed him with those weapons?"

Reluctantly, he nodded.

In the distance, explosions sounded, followed by screams from the portraits and distinct gleeful, horrific laughter.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Rancorous, but I don't believe I saw Peeves carrying a supply of cannonballs."

Rancorous gulped. "Th-the cannon is charmed, Headmistress. An endless supply of magically loaded cannon...balls…" he trailed off at the sight of the older woman's temple vein—the one that expressed her sheer anger, the vein that told students when to stop fooling around lest they get expelled.

At that moment, he wasn't sure who terrified him more: Eupraxia or Peeves.

Carpe nodded once more, at a loss for words.

Eupraxia closed her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Alright, Rancorous. First thing's first: evacuation is in order. Alert the Heads of Houses, will you?"

He did as he was asked, fleeing as quickly as his legs would allow. Meanwhile, the echoes of Peeves' havoc rumbled all around.

This was a nightmare, his own personal hell. Peeve's words terrorized him: '_It means I don't have to be _nice_ anymore!'_

Carpe shook himself free of his doubts. No. There must be a way to stop him. Between the Headmistress and the faculty, they could end Peeves' hauntings once and for all!

.

.

It was three days before the Poltergeist finally relented and relinquished his weapons, but not without creating a contract with the Headmistress that allowed him additional privileges at the school.

When Peeves signed it, he gave Rancorous a wicked grin.

.

.

It was a great day for Peeves.

"He's cackling again," a bespectacled girl observed.

"He's _always_ cackling," a young boy with bright red hair replied.

The two students sat in the Great Hall, eyes following the floating Poltergeist as he flipped and zipped above their heads. Peeves did cartwheels in the air, giggling with glee as he assumed a physical form and proceeded to dance across the Gryffindor Table, a newspaper page clutched in his hand.

"No, but I mean, he's actually really pleased about something. Don't you think?" the young witch insisted.

The redhead shrugged, returning his attention to his breakfast. "Seems normal to me."

Peeves somersaulted off the end of the table and took off into the air once more. From his pockets, he withdrew an alarming number of oranges and proceeded to pelt them at unsuspecting children.

"Students out of bed!" he cried, "Students out of bed!"

"They're _supposed_ to be out of bed! Merlin's sake, Peeves, it's _breakfast_!" exclaimed the Head Girl who had never appeared so disheveled and at her wits' end. She was ignored, however, as the Poltergeist blew a raspberry and disappeared out the windows to terrorize other people.

In his haste, he dropped the article that had him so excited. It landed before the two young Gryffindors as if placed there by a gentle hand.

_"HOGWARTS CARETAKER RETIRES"  
__-Betty Skeeter_

_After decades of exemplary service to the Wizarding School, Rancorous Carpe has surrendered his post, citing "health concerns" as the reasoning behind his resignation. Is the position too demanding? Should something be done about the working conditions at Hogwarts?_

The rest of the article went on to slander Headmistress Mole and challenge the integrity of the school.

The two students glanced at each other—"See?" the redhead prompted, "Peeves is just being Peeves. Business as usual and all that,"—before shrugging and returning to their breakfast.

Somewhere in the halls, Peeves popped out of a portrait and scared the new Caretaker, Apollyon Pringle, half to death.

A great day, indeed.


End file.
